


House Shaped Heart

by Luna_Hart



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Adoptive Parents - Freeform, Adorable, Alternate Universe, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Children, Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot Wednesday, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, good guy Brock Rumlow, good guy Jack Rollins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-05 22:13:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12803493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Hart/pseuds/Luna_Hart
Summary: After the fall of the Triskelion, Brock Rumlow has only one thought in his mind: getting back to his girls.





	House Shaped Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I just get an idea popping into my head and it won't leave me alone until I get it down on electronic paper.

  
Brock woke slowly, coughing as he inhaled cement dust. He was covered in it, a light dusting of white powder turning his hair and black STRIKE uniform grey. His head pounded and when he brought a hand up to his temple, it came away bloody.

He took a slow breath, feeling his ribs protest as his lungs expanded. Bruised most definitely, probably broken. He slowly got his legs underneath himself and choked, colour draining from his face as his knee pulsed in agony.

He struggled to his feet, keeping weight on his uninjured leg. He had a deep laceration on his bicep that was bleeding sluggishly and the left side of his face felt raw but besides that he seemed to have gotten lucky.

He couldn't say the same for whoever was buried under the rubble beside him. He could see the blood-stained hand sticking out from under the slabs of concrete and twisted metal. He grimaced, hoping it wasn’t someone he knew well, and began limping towards what he hoped was an exit.

He had only one thing, one destination, in mind.

 

 

  
He managed to avoid running into anyone beyond the first emergency crews. He was able to talk his way out of being hauled off in an ambulance but only just. A few hours and a stolen SUV later and Brock was limping carefully up to his apartment situated on a quiet residential street in Alexandria. It was a huge risk coming back but he didn’t have a choice.

He knocked softly, tapping twice before pausing and then tapping three more times in the predetermined secret signal. There was a scrabbling from inside the apartment and then the door swung open. Brock slipped inside, locking the door behind him. He blanched as a pair of small arms wrapped like steel bands around his injured leg.

A high pitched little voice was chanting “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” His vision went white around the edges and he braced a hand against the door.

He reached down, prying the little arms away from his injury and bending down to her level. “I missed you, Daddy!” the little girl said with a bright smile. He always marvelled how one so small could be so freaking strong.

“I missed you too, monkey,” Brock murmured, brushing back Clara’s curly blonde hair off her forehead. “What happened to you?” She asked, eyes going wide with concern as she took in the blood and the dust. Quiet footsteps behind them saved Brock from answering and he turned to see Elena step out of the kitchen, eyes wide and scared.

“Where’s Aunt Judy?” he asked, referring to their retired SHILED Agent neighbour who lived across the hall and babysat while he was at work. It was a huge risk, considering his work as a double agent, but it was one he had been willing to take.

He’d rather take a chance on Judy finding out about him than some sixteen year old who couldn’t protect his children if it came to it. He just hoped that she didn’t know about everything that had happened just yet.

“She went next door to get more milk. What happened?” Elena demanded, her chin set stubbornly forward telling Brock she was trying not to show how upset she was by his injured state. “I’m okay. Just had a little accident,” Brock said. “But guess what? We are going on a trip.”

“Where are we going?” Clara asked, bouncing up and down excitedly. “It’ll be an adventure,” Brock said, glancing at his watch. They had already wasted too much time already. “Okay,” Brock said, crouching down to the girls level. “Just like we practised, right?” He made sure to meet Elena’s eyes, seeing her nod in understanding.

“Daddy, you got blood on me.”

His eyes snapped to Clara, who was looking down at the stains smeared across her pink shirt. Brock struggled to maintain his composer. He had tried so hard to keep the girls out of this world and now look what was happening.

“I’m sorry baby,” he said, swallowing down the sick feeling in his stomach. “Why don’t you go change?” He said, throwing a glance at Elena. “I need to shower.”

He left the girls heading back to their bedrooms to change as he stepped into the bedroom pushed the door to but not closed. He took the gun from his pocket and placed it atop the cupboard shelf, too high for Clara to reach but where Brock could still grab it if needed.

He showered fast, grimacing as the water and soap burned through the various cuts and scrapes. Bubbly red water raced down the drain as he towered himself dry. He patched up his wounds quickly, also finding a brace under the sink from a few years ago when he had injured his knee before.

He strapped on the brace and then pulled on jeans and a t-shirt. A hoody and leather jacket went over that, with socks and heavy boots. A black baseball cap and aviators followed suit. He grabbed the go bags from under his bed, where they sat packed in case of emergencies just like this. Brock had hoped to never have to use them.

He moved on autopilot, mind numb and blank. He crouched by the safe in the wall, swiftly unlocking it and pulling out his backup side arm and holster. He slide the clip into place with a snap, tucking it safely into the back of his jeans. The spare clips went in one of the bag. The small pistol got strapped to his ankle. The knives went in the bag.

This accomplished, he moved to the large painting on the wall beside the bed. Behind it was another safe, this one filled with the emergency passports and documents he had made when the girls had come into his life. Along with their new identities was a few thousand dollars worth of cash. Those too went into the bag.

He didn’t take the time to think of the extra passport and driver’s licence that was in there, the one with the name _Jack Russo_. He couldn’t focus on that right now. He had to get the girls to safety.

He dropped the bags by the door, adding the first aid kit from under the sink to one of them. “Girls,” he called, not too loudly but clear enough they could hear him wherever they were. They appeared immediately, Elena dragging two duffel bags behind her. Each girl had a backpack on and Clara had the stuffed rabbit that Jack had gotten her for Christmas tucked safely under her arm.

He had trained them what to do in case something like this ever happened. They always packed their emergency bags together, swapping out the clothes every so often so that whatever was in there would always fit. The bags had sat in their closet, untouched and Brock had prayed they would stay that way. Stay that way until they were all grown up and moved out and Brock was retired and living in some vacation home in Bali.

“Where’s Uncle Jack?” Clara asked and Brock felt like someone had stabbed ice into his chest. It splintered outwards, making it difficult to breathe. He forced air into his lungs, forcing those feelings to the side.

“Shoes,” he said crisply, picking up Clara’s sneakers and avoiding the question he wasn’t able to answer. “But I want to wear my ballerina slippers,” she protested as he put the shoes on her little feet. “Not today, monkey,” he said tying the laces with double knots. “But I wanna,” Clara said, lip quivering a little. Brock sighed. They didn’t have time for this.

“How about we pack them for later? Is that a good compromise?” He said, turning to find Elena already putting the little pink slippers in the bag. He sent her a quick smile of gratitude. Not for the first time he was thankful and amazed at the older girl.

“What’s a com—compro—,” Clara said, nose scrunching in concentration. “Compromise,” Brock said, picking the little girl up and setting her on her feet. “I’ll tell you in the car.” He slung the bags over his shoulder, grabbing the girl’s bags in one hand. He checked the peepholes into the hallway before easing the locks open. “Okay, come on. Quickly now.”

He began to lead them down the hallway when a door opened across the hall. He cursed under his breath as Judy stepped halfway out into the hallway, eyes wary and the right side of her body hidden behind the door. “Brock,” she said crisply, eyes hard. “Girls. Where are you guys going in such a hurry?”

He forced an easy smile. “Just a little impromptu trip. Finally cashed in those vacation days and didn’t want to waste a second in case they found a reason to pull me back in.”

“I see,” she said stiffly. “Doesn’t have to do with what’s currently blowing up the news channel?” Brock chuckled but his heart was racing. She knew, or at least was suspicious enough to correctly guess. “You know watching those channels isn’t good for you, Juds,” he teased easily. “You can’t trust half of it and the rest is exaggeration at best.”

“Don’t make this difficult, Brock,” she said stiffly, shifting her weight ever so slightly. Brock swallowed thickly. “Judy, please,” he whispered, pulling the girls closer to him in case this got ugly.

He watched as Judy’s eyes flicked from him down to the girls and they softened. She hesitated and Brock could hear his pulse pounding in his ears. She sighed, tired eyes flicking up to Brock again and something had shifted. Brock could feel it.

“I can give you ten minutes,” she said quietly. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Brock didn’t waste anymore time on words and hustled the girls down the hallway. He got Clara strapped into her carseat in record time, boosting Elena up before throwing the bags in the front seat. He slipped behind the wheel and the SUV roared out of the parking lot and down the street.

 

 

 

 

 

  
Everything hurt. His skin burned and crawled. His head pounded. He couldn't swallow, couldn't talk. He couldn't even open his eyes, they felt glued shut. His fucking hair hurt, which he wasn’t sure was even possible.

Lights flashed across his eyelids and shadows of voices murmured all around him. He heard one voice very clearly, sounding crisp and furious.

“Is he going to live?”

“It’s too early too tell.” Another voice said softly, almost too softly for him to hear it.

Other strange noises echoed, drowning out the voices. Strange beeping and clicking and ringing. Then he realized the ringing was constant and probably just in his head. Permanent ear damage crossed his mind briefly but he couldn't hold onto the words or the concept behind them and slipped back into darkness.

The next time he remembered waking up, he could actually open his eyes. It wasn’t much of an improvement. Everything was white. A bright wash of too bright, too white and he clenched his eyes closed again.

He tried to swallow and he choked. Something was choking him. He struggled weakly but couldn't seem to move his arms very much. His legs hurt like a bitch and then everything started to hurt again.

He was drowning in a sea of mindless pain.

Hands held him down and those hurt too. Voices that he was sure were trying to be calming but just scrapped at the inside of his head, making no sense. Someone shone a light in his eyes and his vision bloomed with white.

Something cool, scratch that, something cold ran through his veins. It was like ice, numbing him from the inside out and the white darkened into black once again.

The third time he woke up was better, but only just. Something was pulling and tearing at his throat and he choked but then he could breath again. He was coughing but couldn’t seem to clear his lungs enough to be comfortable. He sucked in air and it wasn’t cool or soothing. It burned. His throat felt raw and radiated heat.

“Sir, you can’t be in here,” a high pitched voice said reproachfully.

“I need to talk with him.” That crisp and furious voice was back. He knew that voice. He had heard that voice almost every day for the past two years.

“We just took him off intubation. He can’t talk. Plus the damage to his vocal cords is extensive.” He felt a rush of anxiety at those words. What did she mean by ‘extensive’? Did that mean he’d never be able to talk? Or would he speak in a deep rasp like a three pack a day chainsmoker in his sixties?

“When will I be able to?” said calm and furious. “Not today,” said reproachful voice sternly. “We need him to talk,” the furious voice was getting quieter. “I’m sure you do.” It sounded like reproachful was herding calm and furious out of the room.

The fourth time he woke up, he felt groggy and sore but better. In fact, he felt vastly improved from all the other times but he knew by the overall fuzzy feeling that was just because they had him pumped to the eyeballs with drugs and painkillers.

He tried to move but couldn’t. Confused, he glanced down to see his wrists encircled by padded cuffs like the ones they used for psych patients.

He blinked slowly as a face came into focus. Blonde hair, dark jacket, cold stoney expression with hard eyes brimming with disappointment. “Where is he?” asked cold and furious. “We know he survived the collapse of the Triskelion. Where would he go?”

He smirked, not about to give the man any satisfaction. It only infuriated him more. He leaned forward, eyes snapping with barely controlled fury. “Where is Agent Rumlow?” He growled.

“Go fuck yourself,” he rasped, feeling the words tear into his ruined throat. He coughed, blood from his torn throat splattering across his lips. His grin was borderline feral, blood staining his teeth.

“You’ll never find him.”

 

 

  
_Six months later:_

  
Brock was in trouble. Big trouble.

He could almost feel the sweat drip down his neck as he stole up to his target, muscles tensed. The screaming hadn’t stopped, continuing in an unending high pitch, unwavering and shrill.

Brock took a deep breath and took the shot.

_WACK!_

Brock sighed, reaching down with the wadded up toilet paper to wipe the remains of the spider from the wall. “I got it. I got it. It’s dead,” he said, turning back to the shrieking child still perched on the coffee table, bunny stuffy clutched to her chest.

“Baby, please stop screaming,” he begged, tossing the paper in the garbage by the sink. The shrieking came to an abrupt halt as Clara hopped down from the coffee table. “Thanks Daddy!” she said in a sing-song voice and skipped off towards the bedroom.

Brock sighed, looking over to Elena who had been standing in the kitchen the whole time with her hands clamped firmly over her ears.

"Your sister is very loud," Brock commented. Elena shrugged. "She doesn't get it from me," she said as she put their breakfast plates in the dishwasher. Brock’s eye caught sight of the clock and he cursed under his breath. ”You're gonna be late for school. Again. Clara!" He called as he threw an apple into each of the girls lunch boxes.

"Yeah?" She said, skipping back into the room. "Get your shoes, please," he said, zipping the bags shut and handing them to Elena. He stepped into the hallway to see Clara skipping around, still very much barefoot. "Where are your shoes?"

"I don't know," she said sweetly, looping a finger around her curl. "Well, where did you see them last?" He said with exaggerated patience, checking the clock nervously. "On my feet," Clara replied, starting to spin in circles.

"That's not-," Brock bit his tongue with a huff. "Check the bathroom," Elena said, zipping their lunches into their backpacks. "But why would they be in-," Brock cut himself off as he stepped into the bathroom and found two very small sneakers shoved up behind the toilet seat. "What are they doing in here?" he grumbled, stalking back to the kitchen.

"Help your sister," he said, handing the shoes to Elena. "And shoes below at the front door, please," he scolded and tweaked Clara on her nose, causing the little girl to giggle. "Okay, coats, coasts, coats," he urged, helping both the girls into their jackets. "You're next winter jacket will have buttons," he growled as the zipper of Clara's jacket jammed. She just giggled.

"Okay," he said turning to Elena. "Nora will pick you up from school today. There's leftovers in the fridge she can heat up for dinner. No TV before homework. I'll be back late. Kisses." He kissed both girls on the top of their heads. "Did I forget anything?"

"Permission slips for the field trip," Elena said and Brock blanched. He had completely forgot. "Which I forged last night and are already in our backpacks." She added. "What would I do without you?" He said, pressing another kiss to her blonde head. "Hurry now or you'll miss the bus," he said, grabbing his phone as he walked the girls to the door.

"Shit," he swore as his phone rang, buzzing annoyingly in his pocket as they made their way down the hallway. "Daddy, you said a bad word!" Clara cried, looking far too delighted. "And I will put a dollar in the swear jar, I promise," he said, juggling the girls backpacks to pull his phone out of his pocket.

"Yes, hello, what?" He snapped impatiently.

"I missed you too," a raspy voice murmured in his ear.

Brock's breath hitched and his steps faltered. The voice was rough and wrecked sounding, but it was definitely him.

"You still there?" Jack asked softly.

"Yeah," Brock whispered.

He felt like someone had smacked him upside the head with a board. He hadn't been able to find anything on Jack's survival and he had looked. Oh, had he looked. As much as he could safely and without compromising himself and through him the girls. He had left clues in all of their predetermined drop points, just hoping that it was enough but knowing it probably wouldn't be.

"Hurry up Daddy!" Clara called from the end of the hallway as they reached the stairs. "I'm coming," he called out to them. "Forgot it was a weekday," Jack said softly. "Called at the worst time, didn't I?"

"It's fine," Brock said as he followed the girls out of the rundown apartment building and onto the street. They made it just in time as the school bus pulled to a stop in front of them. "Just gimme a sec," Brock said. "Don't hang up," he added hurriedly, pushing down the bubble of panic that rose and the thought of Jack doing just that. A rough chuckle was the only reply but Brock took that as a yes.

"Be good, be safe," he called after the girls. Clara ran back to give him a fierce hug around the knees before bounding back onto the bus. Elena waved and then the doors shut and they were off.

He shivered in the cold morning air and sucked back into the apartment, waving to old Mrs. Gallagher taking her little chow-chow for it's morning walk. "Hey," he sniffed, trotting back up the rickety stairs.

"Hey." His heart skipped a beat as he heard that raspy voice in his ear. "Where are you?" Brock breathed. "No, don't tell me that. That's stupid. Are you safe? Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

"Deep breath," Jack chuckled.

Brock did as he was told. His and Jack's relationship had been a long unspoken tradition before turning surprisingly domestic. He and Jack had had a longstanding relationship of convenience, neither really seeing other people partially because they didn't want to and partially because they were both lazy.

Jack usually crashed at Brock’s every weekend anyways but started staying over more once Brock was given custody of the girls. He had been a godsend and Brock knew he wouldn’t have gotten through those first few months without him.

Brock hadn't even hesitated about taking the girls in after his sister and her husband died. He had absolutely no experience with kids save for being the fun uncle that would show up occasionally, fill them with sugar and then leave, much to the ire of his sister. To say that dealing with a six year old and a one year old who had just lost their mother was difficult was an understatement. It was a long hard uphill battle but they got there in the end and in no small part because of Jack.

Hands that Brock had seen easily snap grown men's necks were so gentle as they cradled little Clara in his arms as he rocked her back to sleep. Gun calloused fingers were soft as they wiped tears from Elena's face or wove braids into her hair.

Once Brock had walked in past the girl’s bedroom, curious at the quiet murmuring he heard. He peered into the room, seeing Jack reading the girls a bedtime story. This massive scarred man was lying in this tiny bed with princess pillows, _The Little Princess_ in hand and two little girls curled under each arm. Brock had felt a strange warm feeling wrap around his chest and squeeze.

A week later Jack sold his apartment and because a permanent fixture in their home life, much to both the girls and his delight.

“Just tell me you're okay," Brock whispered, feeling his throat closing with emotion as he slipped back into the apartment.

“I’m okay,” came the raspy answer from the tall man standing in the middle of the living room. Brock blinked, phone still held to his ear even as Jack turned off his and tucked it into his pocket.

“Hey,” the taller man said softly.

“What the fuck?!” Brock exclaimed, prompting a gentle chuckle from the other man. He tossed his phone on the table by the door, striding into the living room. “Jesus,” Brock muttered, grabbing Jack and pulling him into his arms in a brief embrace.

“You okay?” he said, stepping back to get a proper look at the man. “I’m fine,” Jack murmured. That soft raspiness that laced heavily through his voice was new. He looked tired and had lost muscle since the last time Brock saw him. New scars were scattered across his hands and one eye had an unfocused quality to it.

“What happened?” Brock asked, gesturing into the kitchen. “Had a building fall on my face,” Jack grumbled as he took a seat at the breakfast bar while Brock put on the coffee pot. Brock opened his mouth to ask more but could see the hard wary look in Jack’s eyes, silently telling him he didn’t want to talk about it.

On impulse he reached across the counter and wrapped his fingers around Jack’s wrist. “I’m fine,” Jack muttered. “I know,” Brock murmured, stroking his thumb along Jack’s pulse point. Jack reached up a hand, fingertips brushing softly over the new scars that crisscrossed the side of Brock’s face.

“We’re both fine.”

 

 

 

 

_One Year Later:_

  
Steve strode along the sidewalk, sunglasses pushed high on his nose. In his peripheral vision he could see Natasha and Sam strolling arm in arm, looking like the perfect couple on vacation. He couldn't see him, but he knew Clint was perched high on one of the surrounding buildings, playing their eyes in the sky.

“Keep sharp,” Steve muttered into the comms, drifting to a stop in front of a corner shop. “Barton?” He asked, pretending to browse through a rack of postcards. “No visual yet,” Clint’s voice cracked through the comms. “Hey Cap, you ever think about rocking a speedo?”

“Focus,” Steve muttered, not paying attention to the man’s antics. He glanced up and froze as he saw a familiar profile. A tight shirt and board shorts boasted muscles that had not been allowed to slack off. Dark aviators perched on a tanned face laced with thin scars. A little more grey streaked through that black hair, but it was definitely him.

“I’ve got eyes on Rumlow,” Steve said in a harsh voice, moving to hide himself behind the postcard rack. “Where?” Sam snapped in his ear. “North East corner, exiting the convenience store,” Steve said, watching as Rumlow headed around the corner.

“I see him,” Natasha said crisply. “Do not engage,” Steve said sharply, smoothly moving through the crowd in the direction Rumlow went. “Not without backup.”

“Meaning ‘ _not without you_ ’,” she drawled in his ear but Steve wasn’t paying attention. After months and months of searching, they had finally found him. He had rounded the corner and the man was gone. He blinked in surprise, glancing around. “Where is he?” He asked sharply. He scanned heads and faces. “I don’t see him.”

Steve picked up the pace, dodging lagging tourists. Moments later he met up with Natasha and Sam out on the other side of the alley. “Where’d he go?” Steve demanded. Natasha just shrugged.

Steve scanned the street. “He must have spotted us,” he muttered, frustration bubbling in his chest. “I see him,” Tony came in over the comms again. “He doubled back. Got into a car. Headed North.” Steve bite back a curse.

It had been almost two years since the Triskelion fell and Brock Rumlow vanished into thin air. They hadn't been ale to find any trace of him beyond some first responders who recognized someone fitting his description waving off treatment before disappearing. He had come this close to bringing one of the men responsible for his best friends imprisonment and torture and now he had slipped through their fingers once again.

“Well, thank God I’m here,” Clint’s voice drawled through the comms. “You tagged the car?” Steve asked sharply, a little spark of hope rising in his chest. “I tagged the car,” Clint said smugly.

 

 

  
Steve took point with Natasha and Clint on his six as they headed carefully along the hallway. “On three,” Steve murmured as they flanked the apartment door on either side. “One, two…”

On three, Steve kicked the door open.

Of everything he expected, seeing Rumlow calmly sitting at the kitchen table, as if waiting for them, was not high up on the list. “Cap,” Rumlow said softly, setting his phone down on the table beside him and staring up at the assembled group with calm eyes. “Rumlow,” Steve said stiffly.

If looks could kill, Natasha would be dead on the ground the second Rumlow laid eyes on her. The man’s dark eyes grew hard and cold and Steve could see his jaw muscles jumping from across the room. Steve frowned, briefly wondering what prompted such a reaction.

If Steve hadn’t been so engaged in the staring contest with the dark haired HYDRA agent, he might have noticed the oddities around the apartment. But Natasha did. 

She saw the tiny ballerina slippers and the slightly bigger but still way too small for Rumlow red converse sneakers. She saw the stickers and magnets and various pieces of artwork strewn across the front of the fridge. The boardgames and puzzles that were stacked in the bookshelves beside Disney DVDs.

The silence was broken by voices and footsteps on the stairs out in the hallway. A young high pitched voice chattering away in excitement and a deeper gravelly voice murmuring patiently.

Steve barely had a second to react before Rumlow was in motion. He kicked one of the kitchen chairs out, slamming it hard into Steve’s legs. Another well placed kick caught Clint square in the chest, sending him tumbling backwards. Rumlow only got as far as the doorway before Steve was on him, tackling him to the ground.

“Run!” Rumlow bellowed out into the hallway.

Steve listened as the voices stopped and the footsteps faltered before thundering back down the way they had come. Rumlow took a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against the floor as Steve wrenched his hands behind his back and cuffed them.

“Sam?” Steve snapped, hauling Rumlow onto his knees. “Got ‘em,” was the reply. Steve frowned, puzzled. “Them?” he asked, feeling Rumlow go still and tense under his hand. “Yeah, you should just see this for yourself,” was the critic answer. Steve soon got his answer as Sam escorted Rollins up the stairs. But they weren’t alone.

Steve didn’t know what to make of the sight and just stared in shock at the two small children clinging to the scarred HYDRA agent. One, the older of the two girls, was standing at the man’s hip, wary and tense. The other clung to Rollins’ hand, eyes wide with surprise and fear.

Those eyes widened even further as they alighted on Rumlow. Steve’s mouth fell open as the child screeched.

“Daddy!”

The little girl flung herself towards the cuffed agent. Rollins’ lunged for her but she was too fast and was across the room in an instant, flinging herself against Rumlow’s chest.

Steve didn’t know what to think. Rollins being here wasn’t a surprise. In fact Steve had been expecting it. The two men had always been attached at the hip and when Rollins had escaped the hospital, it made perfect sense that he would find Rumlow. Steve had been counting on it, but the man was too good an operative and they had lost him within a week.

But _children_?

Steve had no idea Rumlow had kids. He never even mentioned them. He threw a glance over to Natasha but she looked as surprised as he felt, or at least as surprised as Natasha ever looked. “It’s okay, princess,” Rumlow was murmuring as the little girl wrapped her skinny arms around his neck. “It’s okay.”

“Daddy, what’s going on?” the little girl whispered, glancing up at Steve with wide eyes. Rumlow didn’t answer her, glancing up at Steve. His dark eyes were guarded. “You think you can…?” he asked, shifting his cuffed wrists. “Given the circumstances.”

Steve hesitated, glancing over to the others. Natasha just arched an eyebrow. Clint looked unsure, calculating eyes flicking from Rumlow to Rollins and back like he was trying to figure out a puzzle. Steve sighed and bent to unlock the cuffs. His instincts screamed at him not to, given how well he knew the man in front of him, but the presence of the children threw a wrench into everything. With Sam covering the door, Steve was confident the two HYDRA agents wouldn't do anything stupid, seeing how protective they seemed over the children.

As soon as his hands were free, Rumlow wrapped his arms around the little girl and got to his feet. “You want some juice?” he asked, walking calmly into the kitchen. He stopped to ruffle a hand through the older girl’s hair, exchanging a look with Rollins that Steve noticed lingered a little too long.

“Grapefruit or apple?” he asked softly, shifting the little girl to his hip as he opened the fridge. “Grapefruit,” came the muffled reply as the girl buried her face in Rumlow’s neck after meeting Clint’s eyes. “Elena, you want juice?”

“What’s going on? Why is Captain America in our living room?” the other girl asked sharply, eyes staring accusingly up at Steve. Rumlow sighed as he poured two glasses of juice. “You have homework?” he asked instead, handing one glass to the child on his hip and holding the other out to the older one. Steve watched as the older girl, Elena, glared up at the dark-haired man.

“Don’t change the subject,” she accused. “And don’t try to lie to me either. I know your tells.” Steve couldn’t help but be a little impressed and he could see Clint’s lips twitch. Rumlow’s sigh was a little long-suffering as he dropped down to a knee. “I’m won’t.” Steve heard him say softly. “I promise I will tell you everything but right now I need you to take your sister and go play in your room, okay?”

The girl hesitated but then nodded, eyes over-bright and jaw tense. “That’s my girl,” Rumlow murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Go on,” he added, handing her the cup of juice and then gently extracting himself from the younger one’s embrace. “But I wanna stay with you,” the girl whined, nearly spilling her juice all over the man.

“Come on Clara,” the older girl said, taking her hand. “We can have a tea party,” she encouraged as she led the other down the hallway. “I’ll watch ‘em,” Clint volunteered. “I love me a good tea party.”

“You lay a finger on them and I’ll—,” Rumlow growled, taking a half step towards the archer. Steve bristled but Clint just waved off the threat. “Relax, man. I got kids too.” With that, he sauntered off down the hallway after the two girls. Steve turned back to Rumlow, unsure where to even start. Thankfully, Rumlow seemed to know. “They’re my nieces,” he explained. “My sister and her husband died seven years ago. No other family so I took them in.”

“But she called you ‘ _Daddy_ ’,” Sam pointed out from where he was lounging against the doorjamb. “She was barely a year when her parents died,” Rumlow said as way of explanation, not even bothering to turn around. Steve studied the two men in front of him. For all the others would tease him about being old fashioned or inexperience as they seemed to be inclined to believe. He was no where near as naive about the world.

He saw the way Rumlow had looked at those girls, the love but also the fear he had hidden behind smouldering anger. He also saw the way that Rollins unconsciously gravitated towards the shorter man. The way Rumlow relaxed minutely as Rollins folded in behind him, obviously feeling safer and more grounded with the taller man watching his back. 

“And yet you put both of them in danger without a second thought when you joined HYDRA,” Natasha said sharply. Steve knew she was testing him and was curious how the dark haired man would react to her accusations.

“I was recruited long before either were born,” Rumlow said through gritted teeth. Steve saw Rollins unconsciously shifted his body, simultaneously moving closer to Rumlow while also putting himself between Rumlow and Natasha. More pieces of the puzzle clicked into place in Steve’s mind.

“So why stay?” Steve said curiously. Honestly, he was feeling more curious now than accusatory. His eyebrows lifted in surprise as Rumlow’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly. “You don’t get to leave HYDRA and live,” he said stiffly, suddenly looking very tired.

“And what about Bucky?” Steve asked quietly. The burning hatred for what Rumlow had done to his closes friend had been the driving force behind his obsession with finding the man. Now that hatred had lessened in leu of all this new information but Steve still needed to know. He needed to understand.

Rumlow sighed. “I’m sorry for the part I played in what happened to Barnes,” he said, dark eyes searching Steve’s earnestly. “No one deserves that. But it would have been suicide to try and help and HYDRA can be…vindictive,” he finished, a pained look in his eyes that spoke of past personal experiences too painful to be spoken of.

“I wasn’t about to risk the lives of my girls for the sake of doing the right thing.” Fierce dark eyes met Steve’s blue ones and the protective ferocity Steve saw there left no question that this man would die for those girls and, if Steve’s suspicions were correct, die for the man beside him.

Silence descended upon the mismatched group as no one seemed to know what to say next. Rollins rocked forward to murmur something in Rumlow’s ear. Steve strained to hear what was said, but even is superior hearing couldn't pick out the words. Whatever it was made Rumlow sigh and glance at the clock hanging in the kitchen.

“Well, considering I’m probably not going to make you all leave by asking nicely,” he paused, glancing around the room. When no one said anything, he rolled his eyes. “Yeah, didn’t think so. I guess we’re ordering pizza,” he said, throwing his hands in the air.

 

  
An hour later and Steve watched calculatingly as Clara and Elena munched away at their pizza sitting on the couch. Rumlow had since introduced them as his old work colleagues, which had started a hailstorm of questions from the older girl as to why Rumlow and Uncle Jack used to work with Captain America, questions which Rumlow promptly shut down.

Clint had made fast friends with the girls. Like always, he was beloved immediately by children and animals alike. He was currently sitting crosslegged on the other side of the coffee table, entertaining Clara with something that involved a lot of hand gestures. Elena was the more wary of the two, but even she seemed to have been won over by Clint’s boyish charm.

Steve watched as the Clara, who at some point had changed into a tutu and ballet slippers, wiped her face on a napkin and climbed into Natasha’s lap who was sitting in an armchair nearby. “Oh, Clara no,” Rumlow began, taking a half step forward but Natasha just waved him off. “Hello,” she said with a smile. “Hello,” the little girl said shyly. “What’s your name?”

“Natasha,” the red headed assassin said, adjusting the little girl to sit more comfortably in her lap. “You’re really pretty,” Clara said. Steve hid a smile behind his hand. “Thank you,” Natasha said primly. “I like your hair.”

“Thanks,” Clara beamed, reaching a hand to check that her bun was still in perfect condition. “Uncle Jack is really good at doing ballerina hair,” she said excitedly. “Is he now?” Natasha murmured, casting a glance to the scarred agent. “Yeah, and he can braid good too! He can do regular braids, and french braids, and…and…,” she fumbled. “Uncle Jack!”

“Yeah monkey?” Rollins said patiently, leaning up against the kitchen counter beside Rumlow. “What’s that other braid you can do?”

“Fishtail,” came the calm reply. “Yeah, that one!” Clara exclaimed. “He sounds very talented,” Natasha said with a small smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “Mmhmm,” Clara agreed, reaching a hand up to feel a strand of the woman’s red hair. “I like your hair too,” she said, twirling the lock of hair around her finger.

A sharp breath made Steve glance back to the kitchen, where Rumlow had turned his back on the living room. He huffed another breath, scrubbing a hand down his face in tense frustration. “You good?” Steve heard Rollins murmur, shifted minutely closer to the shorter man.

“No, I’m not good,” Rumlow snapped under his breath. “Nothing about this is good. I sent you a message. I told you not to come home. Why the fuck didn’t you listen?”

“Daddy, you said a bad word!” Clara protested, who had snuck into the kitchen during the tense exchange without either man noticing. “I’m sorry baby,” Rumlow said, reaching down to cup a large hand against the little girl’s curls.

“I told you to run,” Rumlow ground out through clenched teeth.

Rollins shrugged, the picture of ease but Steve could see the tension telegraphing from his shoulders and his eyes kept flicking over the room, checking the position of Steve and his team. “Phone went for a swim,” he said mildly. He shrugged again in response to the glare Rumlow gave him. “It was either the phone or the kid going into the fountain. I decided to save the latter.”

“Hell of a decision,” the shorter man spat. “Daddy!” Clara protested again. Rumlow’s jaw muscles jumped as he reigned in an obviously shortening patience. “Go finish your dinner,” Rollins chided gently, giving the little girl a light shove. Rumlow turned to watch her skip back to the living room and Steve could see the obvious pain that the man had been trying to hide.

In that moment Steve made his decision.

“I need to make a call,” he murmured to Sam as he made his way to the door, which had since been bolted back onto its hinges, albeit a little crookedly. He could feel Rumlow’s eyes tracking him out into the hallway as he pulled out his phone.

An hour or so later and Steve was on the roof, accepting the drone delivered package with attached note that read:

  
_‘I hope you know what you’re doing. Tony.’_

  
“So do I,” Steve murmured as he scooped up the package and headed back inside. “Girls, go get ready for bed please,” Rumlow said stiffly as Steve stepped back through the door. He could see the dark haired man eyeing the slender package he held in his hands. “But,” Clara began to protest but Rumlow swiftly cut her off. “Now.”

Clara pouted but didn’t complain further as Elena took her by the hand. The older girl cast looks to both agents and then to Steve, eyes wise beyond her years, as she pulled her sister out of the room.

“I have a proposition,” Steve said once the girls were out of earshot. He could feel the tension radiating from the two men as they cautiously stepped closer, Rollins staying tight on Rumlow’s heels. Steve also felt the others eyeing him closely. He set the package on the table, pulling out two large syringe-like applicators.

“What the fuck is this?” Rumlow said softly, eyes hard and muscles stiff. Steve sighed. “I get it,” he said, much to the surprise of everyone here, especially the two former HYDRA agents. “I had Stark run the facts. You aren’t lying about the girls so…I get it. You were only trying to protect your family. However,” he added, shifting into what Natasha liked to refer to as his ‘ _Captain Voice’_.

“It doesn’t excuse what you did, either of you,” he added, eyes flicking over to Rollins who had been silent the whole time. “So I propose a compromise. Dermal trackers,” he said, holding up the applicator for all to see. “Stark Tech. Unhackable and untraceable by any outside source,” Steve added, already seeing the protests bubbling on Rumlow’s lips.

“We would be the only ones privy to this,” Steve said. “No SHIELD, no government. Just us. You get a life. And your girls get to stay out of foster care,” he added when he saw Rumlow hesitate. There was a flash of anger laced with a hint of panic that flickered in the man’s dark eyes and Steve knew he had him.

Rumlow cast a glance around the room and then over his shoulder at Rollins. The silent communication that happened between the two men was the final piece of the puzzle that Steve needed to create a full picture. So many things fell into place, now making sense where they hadn't before. Things that went as far back as to when he had first met the two agents, fresh from the ice and naive to the twenty-first century.

“Seems like we don’t have much of a choice.”

 

  
Another hour and Steve and his team were making their way out of the apartment, having successfully planted a tracker in both former HYDRA agents.

“We even now?” Natasha said quietly to Rollins as she passed him, heading for the door. “What, you crush my larynx and cave my skull in with a building so in return you don’t throw me in the Raft?” Rollins murmured, a sarcastic smirk twisting his lips. “Something like that,” Natasha responded, face calm as always.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Rollins drawled. Steve cast a last look back at Rumlow, unable to read whatever emotion was flickering in those dark eyes. Rumlow met his gaze and gave him a curt nod, one which Steve replied before stepping out into the hallway.

“Well, that was interesting,” Clint drawled as they walked out onto the street, picking off the puppy sticker that Clara had pressed to the front of his shirt and tucking it in his pocket.

“That’s one word for it,” Natasha drawled. Steve flushed, ducking his head a little. “I should have checked with you all first,” he said, chagrinned. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t see another option.”

“You’re getting soft in your old age,” Clint teased, shoving his shoulder against Steve’s. “What are you going to tell Hill?” Sam asked curiously. Steve blinked and faltered. He hadn’t thought about that.

He glanced up at the building as they reached the corner, up to the top floor apartment. He could just make out the silhouette of Rollins through the open window. He watched the man reach out a hand, pulling Rumlow into his arms and holding him tight. Rollins tangled a hand in the shorter man’s hair while Rumlow wrapped his arms around the other's muscled torso.

They had only a moment of peace before a curly blonde head weaselled its way between them. Rumlow’s head threw back in silent laughter as Rollins grinned and hoisted the little girl up into his arms. A beat later and a slightly taller blonde head joined the picture, tucking herself under Rumlow’s arm.

“We’ll think of something,” Natasha said knowingly, following Steve’s gaze.

 

 


End file.
